


No One Said This Has To Lead To Love

by AllThatWeSeeOrSeem



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Barduil - Freeform, Happy Ending, M/M, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Mostly Bard's POV, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Semi-Graphic Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-15 11:18:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3445127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllThatWeSeeOrSeem/pseuds/AllThatWeSeeOrSeem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a night of intimacy following Bard's coronation, Thranduil slips away, leaving them both longing and broken hearted. When Thranduil returns to Dale, the reception from its King is less than friendly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There's something about these two, I just can't stop writing them together. I'm determined that this story at least is going to remain M rated and not get away from me, though.

It might have been wrong to call it a feast, all things considered, but it was likely more of a feast than was prudent, considering how newly re-claimed the city of Dale was. 

The people of Dale could provide little towards the celebration of their own. The wine that flowed was elven, the bread that was broken was elven, and the musical instruments, though plucked unskillfully by rough mortal hands in an attempt to recreate the old songs of Dale, were elven as well.

Bard’s coronation ceremony had been largely elven, pieced together with a smattering of old Dale traditions provided by those who could still remember what they had been.

The people were trying, and for that Bard adored them, even if he was not entirely comfortable with the attention.

Few Dwarves attended, and fewer still stayed afterwards, as for the time being they were largely holed up in mourning in Erebor. The elves and the mortals formerly of Laketown had little enough common ground between them as it was, but, thankfully, laughter and dancing is a great equalizer, especially when most present were well and truly drunk. 

Bard, King Bard now, was not drunk. He could not, later, use that excuse. 

He sat in one corner of Dale’s great hall, sipping slowly on a glass of elven wine (often transported on his barge but never previously tasted), and tapped his foot in time with the somewhat out-of-time music. 

Every so often he would catch a glimpse of one of his children, caught up in the celebration. Little Tilda waved at him joyfully as she ran passed, chasing and being chased by a handful of other children allowed to remain awake far longer than usual, just for the night. He had given his children stern instructions to look out for each other and to get off to bed at a decent time, and after years of them being self-sufficient, that was that. 

Bard gratefully accepted a refill of his wine glass when it was offered, and passed out rough smiles and nods to those who approached to offer words of congratulations. He was not aware of Thranduil’s eyes on him. He was not aware of just how closely every move he made was watched by the elf king.

*****

Thranduil’s keen eyes missed nothing. He noted the bead of wine on Bard’s bottom lip, before it was licked away by a thick pink tongue. He watched the shift of the man’s body under the borrowed elven robes they had found for him to wear.

He was glad enough for his own layered robes, for he was visibly aroused beneath them.

He felt his hands clench into fists, nails biting into his palms, each and every time someone approached the new king. That smile, small and humble and kind, was enough to make Thranduil's legs feel weak. What he won't give to see that smile turned his way, just for a moment.

He watched, and he waited, and when those around them began to slip well and truly into drunkenness, he moved to approach King Bard of Dale.

*****

Afterwards, Bard could never be sure at what point in the evening he found himself in close conversation with the elf king. They stood in a corner, in the shadows, with Thranduil between him and the room as though the elf wished to hide Bard from sight lest he be swept away from him by Bard’s admiring people.

The elf king did not touch him, not there in front of everyone, but he did stand so close, nearly pressing Bard back against the wall, that Bard could feel the heat radiating from his body and the stir of his breath against his face. 

Bard hardly knew what the elf king was speaking of, though he tried desperately to keep up his end of the conversation in the rare moments when he could clear his head and gather his thoughts. He wished he had drunk less wine. He wished Thranduil would only take a step back away from him to let him think!

Thranduil was imposing and intoxicating, austere and arousing, leaving Bard nervous and confused and wondering if and when the elf king would make his intentions more obvious.

And then he did, and Bard felt a thrill run through him at the words whispered low and hot in his ear. The promises of pleasure Thranduil made him were sinful, leaving Bard feeling as though his skin was very much too small for his body, and his heart was very much too big for his chest.

It was possible that Bard whimpered or gave another outward sign of his need, for in one moment he was standing in the crowded hall, and the next he was being dragged down a narrow stone corridor towards the more private rooms of the royal family of Dale.

“Where is your chamber?” Thranduil hissed in his ear, and Bard directed him as best he could with the elf king gripping his arm tight enough to bruise, as if Bard may still wish to shake himself free and flee.

Bard’s new chambers were sparsely furnished as of yet, but there was, mercifully, a bed. 

Thranduil bore him down onto that bed with impatient swiftness, tearing him free of his clothing. Thranduil’s lips were firm and velvet soft and tasted of wine. They moved over Bard’s own, hardly giving him pause for breath. 

Bard begged, and was rewarded. In no time he had the elf free from the miles of fabric he favoured. There was the inevitable moment of astonishment and exploration as they looked down the lengths of their bodies at one another. Thranduil seemed amused by the quantity of hair on the man’s chest and legs, and fascinated by the hair around the base of his cock. Bard, on the other hand, was somewhat troubled to find the elf’s cock quite bare. And yet, there was something very tempting about the long, uninterrupted lines of the elf’s body, the soft smoothness of his skin.

“I have never seen a man’s body, unclothed.” Thranduil breathed, sounding very much as though he was in awe as he scratched light fingernails through the dark hair on Bard’s chest, “In truth, you are the first man I have wanted to see. Valar, but you smell like strong spiced wine. I could find myself quite drunk on it.”

“And I have never seen an elf unclothed.” Bard countered by way of agreement, with no small amusement, though his cheeks felt overly warm, “and I have never seen such beauty.”

“You would not say so if you knew the truth,” Thranduil murmured, his hand straying absently to the side of his own face, and Bard wondered at it.

But then the elf king was upon him, and all Bard could do was appreciate the hot slide of his skin against his own, the shift of dense, corded muscles beneath his hands, and the ardent kiss of lips against his throat.

He wanted to warn the eager elf that he might not be able to respond in quite the way he hoped, even as he felt Thranduil pressing hard against his thigh. He was not a young man anymore, and he had been celibate since the death of his wife, pushing aside his body’s desires. 

But Bard need not have worried. His passion for the elf king overrode his sluggish body, and, with a few deft tricks plied upon him by the other, he soon found himself rising into the other’s hand.

Bard moaned, pulled himself closer against the elf’s body. He could feel Thranduil's length pressing hot and firm against his hip, and his own resting low against the elf’s belly. He wriggled experimentally and was rewarded by a punched-out breath from the elf beside him. 

“Peace.” Thranduil groaned in his ear, “or for me this will end far too soon.”

The elf king rose from the bed suddenly, and Bard desperately clutched after him to try and bring him back, but Thranduil simply motioned for patience before turning to scan the room.

“What are you searching for?”

“Salve. Have you any?”

“Yes, on the mantelpiece.” Bard replied, the words hardly out of his mouth before Thranduil was striding across the room toward it.

Bard’s inexperience came to light when Thranduil brandished the salve triumphantly, only for the man to question its possible use. Thranduil, who had previously been keen on the bargeman, bowman, king of Dale having him, instead adjusted his plans. 

The first intimate touch Thranduil made with slick fingers had Bard, who knew of the possibility between two males though had not an inkling of how it might be achieved, recoiling from him in alarm. Thranduil spent long, torturous moments showing Bard just how pleasure could be brought about in such a way, and Bard soon took to it eagerly. 

Thranduil freely took him apart, bit by bit, and Bard was overwhelmed. It had been too long since he had felt another’s hands on his bare skin, and the elf king touched him like he was clutching onto a fading happy dream, frantic to keep it with him for as long as possible. 

*****

Thranduil had not considered that Bard would be so wonderfully tender and responsive in his arms. It was disconcerting. If his need for the man had not been so great, he would have pulled back, brought him off with his hand, thanked him for the lovely evening, and then left in search of a large quantity of good wine. 

But Bard had – well, Bard had arched and writhed into his every touch, warm and sweet and impatient. Bard had returned every caress, hands running over Thranduil’s body as though the elf were ephemeral and fragile. Bard had kissed him in that soft, caring way that mortals had, as though they were the ones who had centuries in which to learn another’s lips. When Thranduil realized it was probably the same way Bard had kissed his wife, he turned it rough, nipping at the man’s mouth.

Thranduil took him then, and Bard surrendered willingly to the elf. Yet even as he felt Bard’s body grip him, hot and tight, he knew he had made a terrible mistake.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short interlude chapter, the next one will be longer again. A million thanks to absolutely everyone who has read, left kudos, and commented. You really make my day each and every time.

In the small hours of the morning, Thranduil stirred. He eased himself from under the warm weight of the man who lay soft and sleep-warm on top of him, pressed a kiss to his damp brow, and slipped from the room with little more than one broken, backward glance.

If Bard had been awake to see the expression on the elf king’s face, he would have found acceptance and understanding in his heart for him. But Bard was not awake, and the look remained unseen. 

When Bard awoke, he was painfully aware that he was alone. The fire had burned itself out in the hearth. The bed, except in the vicinity of his own warmth, was frigid. 

But he did not stretch out a hand in search of his absent lover. He did not search around with bleary eyes, hope still alight in his breast that the one who should have been waking by his side had simply risen early and moved off into the room to prepare for the day.

No, Bard only rolled over, threw back the blankets, and stood. He did not flinch when his bare feet hit the cold stone floor. He bent, retrieved his discarded coat, and wrapped it around himself to hide his nakedness. 

He ignored the way the room smelled heavily of sex as he re-lit the fire. He ignored the way his muscles protested as he lowered himself into a bath. He certainly ignored the way his cock rose hopefully, as it had seldom done in the last few years, as he went about washing dried sweat and semen from his skin.

Bard moved through the day, the week, the month that followed like a thundercloud, until the people began to whisper that being made king had changed him. He snapped at his newly appointed councillors, he snapped at those who sought to advise him on re-building Dale, and he snapped at his children before kissing the tears from their eyes through hushed apologies and entreaties for forgiveness.

At night he writhed alone in his bed. His body, now awoken after so long dormant, refused to quiet. When he did sleep, his dreams were tortured visions of long pale hair and piercing blue eyes, and the sensations of smooth palms and dextrous exploratory fingers roaming his body. 

Bard cursed the elf king as he rocked down onto his own fingers, seeking the pleasure Thranduil had revealed to him, and then up into his own fist. Night after night after night, but any release he is able to provide himself was short-lived and empty. 

Each morning he woke with a numb, hollow ache in his chest and tear streaks on his cheeks, and he rutted his hips into the bed until he came with the elf king’s name on his lips. 

*****

Hidden away in the heart of the Woodland Realm, the elf king Thranduil fared no better than the mortal lover he had abandoned after one night of shared pleasure. 

Thranduil knelt naked in the center of his bed, thighs spread wide. His cock rested hot and hard and heavy between his legs, but he refused to give in, refused to touch himself. It had been many nights he had gone without rest, his traitorous body roiling and refusing to yield to his will. 

He fell forward abruptly to brace himself on his hands, his hips thrusting involuntarily, finding only empty air to rut against. He cried out and then shuddered until he was silent once more, his teeth bared like a rabid animal in the forest. 

Thranduil longed for the embrace he had only savoured once, the warmth of human skin against his own, the press of a hot mouth, lips weather-rough. It was as though Bard was the mortal half of his soul, and he had sundered the connection even as it had just begun to grow, cut them apart before either was ready. 

Eventually, when he could endure no more, he called, screamed for his closest advisor and nearest friend. When Thranduil finally had their reluctant but sympathetic lips wrapped around his flesh, he came almost instantly, bucking into the warm mouth and envisioning much shorter and darker hair scrunched up in his fist.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took much longer to write than I had hoped. Real life got in the way. I had planned this to be the last chapter, but I couldn't fit everything into it, so there will be at least one more.

King Thranduil rode back into Dale three months after his previous sudden and unannounced departure. The people had chalked up the overnight disappearance of the elves to the strange ways of fey folk, but their King knew better. 

And their King was not pleased. 

Unlike previous meetings, Bard did not go down to greet the elf king and his party personally. Instead he sent his guards to escort Thranduil to him and, ragtag though they were, the message they send is clear. Bard himself remained seated on the simple wooden chair placed in front of the great stone throne of Dale, which had been broken beyond use or repair. It would be replaced, eventually, but there were more important things to worry about in the meantime.

It was not long before the elf king burst into the hall ahead of Dale’s guards, who struggled to keep up with his pace. The doors flew open to bang against the wall, and a hush fell over the room.

*****

Thranduil could see from across the high stone hall how drawn and haggard Bard looked. He was too thin, his face ashen, ill looking. It was almost enough to dampen the relief he felt in seeing the man again. Bard’s eyes, rimmed by dark circles, met his, and Thranduil was held immobile for long moments in that gaze. The emotions he thought had faded returned in a rush, had him gritting his teeth and wishing he had simply sent a representative to discuss official matters instead. 

But he could not deny that he needed to see Bard again. The very sight of him soothed his soul, which had been in turmoil since he had torn himself from the man’s bed. The desire to hurry forward, to gather Bard into his arms and once again taste his lips, was nearly overwhelming.

Then Thranduil all at once remembered why he had returned to Dale, and the reception he had received, and anger welled up anew within him. Bard! How dare he! He pushed aside the hurt, which was greater, and let the anger rise instead. 

*****

Thranduil strode across the hall toward him, his face pale with rage, and Bard wondered fleetingly if he had gone too far. But no. Damn the elf king and his superiority. Bard was king and this was his kingdom, and the elf wielded no power in Dale. 

“Is this how the King of Dale greets his visitors?” Thranduil’s voice was ice. “Is this how the alliance between my kingdom and yours will play out?”

“I wasn’t aware of an alliance.” Bard countered. “Certainly it is difficult to form an alliance with another kingdom, when its citizens are in the habit of vanishing in the night.”

“...Perhaps there is somewhere more private we may discuss this.”

“You may speak in front of my councillors.” Bard said airily, waving a hand towards the mostly elderly, somewhat learned men and women who were the best he could have chosen from among the population.

“I doubt that is how you want it.” Thranduil mused, and Bard realized that the elf king did not want to discuss politics but rather _that_ night between them.

“Your presence here is unfounded, _King_ Thranduil” Bard was desperate to get the message to the elf king that their conversation was to be business only, “the people of Dale are thriving. We need your charity no longer.”

“Never have I approached Dale, _or it’s king_ , with charity in mind.” Thranduil's voice was hard but his eyes as they gazed on Bard were soft with emotion. “I did not leave without reason, that night, though what reasons I had at the time seem trivial, now.”

With dawning horror Bard understood the elf king did not care who heard him, that he was more than willing to discuss their encounter in front of Bard’s advisors, mere mortals who would be long dead before the memory of that night even began to dim in Thranduil’s mind.

“I would beg your forgiveness, if only - ”

Bard cut off Thranduil’s words with a strangled cry, nearly rising from his makeshift throne in his agitation. 

“Stop!” he cried, then turned to his councillors, “Give me a moment to discuss certain matters with King Thranduil. In private.”

Bard fell back into the chair as the group of confused men and women shuffled from the room, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair and his palm pressed over his eyes. 

The doors closed behind them, and the room once again descended into silence. Bard was determined that he would not be first to speak. Stubborn and childish, perhaps, but the ache which had been present in the center of his chest since he had last seen the elf king soothed his irritation at himself. 

But the elf king did not speak. 

For long moments they were silent, the tension between them thick and cloying. Bard would have broken it, regardless of his pride, but found he could not find any words. He closed his eyes behind the veil of his hand instead.

“Forgive me.” Thranduil said finally, and his voice was so uncharacteristically soft that Bard looked up.

Thranduil looked shattered. He did not look at Bard, rather, his gaze was fixed downward, unfocused. His eyes were wet, and there was a look of anguish on his face. His mouth was slightly parted and Bard, foolishly, wanted to kiss him. 

Bard sighed. He felt his anger fading. Not extinguished entirely, but certainly doused by the revelation that Thranduil, too, had suffered. 

He spread his hands, palms upward. Why?

Thranduil met his eyes, lifted one shoulder, “I came to the realization that I had made a mistake in bedding you.”

The words were like a bucket of cold water, so dismaying that Bard actually shivered, “I – I see.”

“You do not.” The elf king sighed, “I can tell you do not.”

“Then enlighten me.” Bard snapped, “I might only be mortal, but I am not a child. Explain it to me! Explain how you thought you could use me like - ”

“Bard.”

“Just tell me. Please.”

Thranduil turned from him, paced across the stone floor, then back. “Can you honestly ask why I would hesitate to love you?”

Bard gaped at him, “No one said this has to lead to love!”

“No, but can you deny there is a chance? For my part, there is, and that is not a chance I was willing to take.” 

“So, your visit here _is_ merely political. You only thought to get any awkwardness between us out of the way first.” Bard nodded, his fists clenched and his face carefully blank, “Very wise. I will call my councillors back and we will draw up a trade agreement. Dale is willing to offer - ”

He was silenced abruptly by Thranduil’s lips on his own. Bard gasped in surprise, allowing the elf king access, which he greedily took advantage of. The first stroke of Thranduil’s tongue against his own, and all thoughts of pulling away in protest fled Bard’s mind. The elf tasted as he remembered, and he stretched up into the kiss, and then began to rise as he chased the other’s lips until they were standing chest to chest. 

With Bard still on the low dais, they were of equal height. Thranduil’s hands were at Bard’s hips, long fingers digging brutally into his flesh. Bard’s hands had brought themselves up to clutch at the elf king’s shoulders. Thranduil’s fine hair brushed against his face, and he swatted at it, and then thought better of the move and clutched at it instead, weaving the fine strands through his fingers. Thranduil moaned before breaking the kiss.

“I need you.” The elf king breathed against his mouth.

Bard pulled back, shaking his head, “I need answers.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I am so, so sorry how long this took to post! My brain has been filled lately with inspiration for the other fic I've got going on right now, but I didn't abandon this one! I wanted to make sure the ending was happy enough, after all the angst and drama. Thanks so much for reading!

Thranduil frowned, “I have just given you answers. Are they not sufficient?”

“Sufficient? How can you call those cryptic mumblings about love sufficient? I am more confused than ever!”

“Then let me tell you how it will likely play out between us.” Thranduil murmured, “You and I will fall into bed together once, twice, three times, until it becomes habit when you are in my kingdom and I in yours. Then we will seek each other out, make silly little diplomatic excuses to visit one another. The people will talk. Your children will know. Then one of us will let it slip in the heat of passion that we love the other. And we will know it to be true. We will exchange little tokens of that love, weave a life together as best we can from separate kingdoms. And you will age in front of me, the lines on your face deeper and the grey hairs on your head more numerous each time I see you. One day, I will see you for the last time, and then I will be alone again.”

Bard was speechless, “I don’t - ”

But Thranduil went on, “That is what I saw, that night when I left you. Even as I had you in my arms I could see that future stretched out before us. You are mortal. I am not. Even now I fear your death, I fear the moment you will be taken from me. It is inevitable, as surely as the sun rises each morning. There is a touch of grey in your hair even now, and it will spread. You have experienced the pain of loss, just as I have. How can I freely accept such anguish? That is why I fled, to save myself that heartbreak.”

“Then why have you returned?”

“I came back because the agony of being without you was worse than the grief over your death could ever be. I have made my choice, Bard, what of yours?”

This time, Bard attacked first. He pressed the elf back up against one of the pillars of the hall, pulling his head down in order to press their lips together fiercely. 

*****

Thranduil accepted the man’s kiss eagerly, heart and body alight with desire and joy. There was no love, not yet, but the elf king did not need the gift of foresight to know that it would come upon him all too soon. 

How could it not? The man was warm and alive and fervent against him, deliciously responsive to his every touch, just as he had been before. He could happily glut himself on Bard’s presence for an age, consume him body and soul, and never once get his fill of the scent of his skin or the taste of his mouth. 

More than that, he wanted Bard’s kindness, his courage, his care. He wanted to know more of the man who had raised three brave, independent children. Light pleasantries and long conversations very much factored into Thranduil’s visions of their future. 

*****

This time, it is Bard who grasps the elf’s arm and fairly drags him from the room. They pass the councillors in the corridor, talking in hushed, confused whispers amongst themselves. A few call out indignantly as Bard and Thranduil fly past, but Bard is aroused beyond caring what they think of him, and Thranduil never has.

In his room, now better furnished than the last time the elf king has set foot in it, they fell upon each other once again. Thranduil sucked Bard’s tongue into his mouth while Bard pressed his hips into the elf king’s thigh. Never could he have guess that having Thranduil against him again would stir his blood so thoroughly.

Somehow, at some point which Bard failed to note, they found their way out of their clothing and onto the bed. Thranduil’s skin was soft under his palms, and they slot themselves together as though they were never parted.

Being touched by Thranduil was indescribably better than Bard had remembered, or could ever hope to duplicate alone with only his own two hands. If Bard had learned well since their night together how to please his own body, Thranduil was still the expert in it. 

He tried to place himself, as before, beneath the elf king, but was thwarted each time until he finally understood. Oh, how he understood, and the very thought of it made his face flush and his cock twitch with interest.

*****

Thranduil eyed the pot of salve on the low table by the bed. It was the same one he had made use of before, he was sure of it, and yet when he uncorked it he found much more of its contents had vanished in the meantime. He held it up between them with an eyebrow raised, and was unsurprised to see Bard’s cheeks flush.

“You have been busy.” He teased lowly.

“Don’t.” Bard said, though his face was sad and not angry, “It was you who showed me such pleasures and then abandoned me to them.”

Thranduil sighed, kissing down the column of Bard’s throat in apology. He was well aware of how lucky he was that Bard had given him a second chance at all. And how well the man fit between his thighs! Finally, he would have him the way he had first wanted to, the night of Bard’s coronation. He pressed the salve into the man’s hand, who took it though his hand trembled, and looked down at Thranduil with something akin to wonder and awe in his eyes.

Yes, Thranduil needed this mortal in his life.

*****

In the morning it was Bard who woke first. He felt light and happy, as he had not since becoming king. It was later than the time he usually rose, and at some point someone had come in to bring warm water to wash with and a tray of food to break his fast. He would have to chase them down later and swear them to secrecy. Or perhaps not. Let his people know that their ruler had an elven king in his bed.

But then he thought of his children, and vowed to find and tell them before they found out through rumour and gossip, which tended towards exaggeration. He did not doubt their acceptance.

He woke Thranduil up with a warm washcloth and warmer kisses. The elf blinked up at him then stretched, that long, sensuous body a veritable visual feast. He did not seem so concerned for the future in the light of morning. The horrible possibilities Thranduil seemed to fear were still laid out before them, but so were the possibilities of happiness and love. 

Even as Thranduil awoke fully and pulled the man back down against him, Bard relished the memory of how hot and firmly the elf king’s body had gripped him the night before. That sensation could quickly become addicting. Already he knew he would want Thranduil again. 

Perhaps before breakfast.


End file.
